In the Fog

The weather has been interesting lately.  We've had days and days of rain, too warm weather for winter, cold/windy weather, and also quite a bit of mornings with heavy fog.  I hadn't paid too much attention to the fog until it was becoming a factor in getting me to and from treatments.

Once I really started noticing the fog, I was aware of the ways other people were noticing it, too. Of course, I've used the phrase, "like I'm in a fog" to describe some of how I've been feeling in the last month.  I've been overwhelmed, blown away, and stressed, just trying to make it one day at a time.

Other than just using that common fog phrase, I picked up on even more of the fog analogy.

A few days after being in a mental fog and experiencing the actual fog, a friend made a facebook post about her own fog analogy.  I hope she doesn't mind me sharing--{Thanks, Shannan!}

The thick fog that only gave me about 10 feet visibility offered so much perspective this morning...there was all the allegorical symbolism of riding into the unknown, of knowing the trail but having to watch it vigilantly for unknown danger, of the solace of coming upon a distant light shining through the misty grey like a safe harbor...but there was also this rare beauty...the sound of the collected dew dripping from the trees, the utter silence on the blackest parts of the trail, the surprising beauty of the way the individual droplets glittered in my hair and on my skin every time I passed within even the palest beam of light...so when I arrived drenched and with my make-up running down my face at work and people gasped: " You RODE in this?"...I can say: "Yep...and it was awesome."

Even though I wasn't at a point to comment or even "like" this post, I immediately related because we had fog here that morning, and the analogy was fitting to my current trial and the only way to really deal with it.  I have to keep on keeping on, even when I can't see what's ahead of me.  Like fog, this cancer is unexpected, not normal, an inconvenience, possibly dangerous, and makes things harder.  It slows you down and puts you on high-alert.  There is an added measure of stress, for sure, but you can't just stop.  You keep moving forward.  I also liked how Shannan reminded me to enjoy the beautiful blessings this fog has not removed from my life, the tender mercies--especially my family and friends.

Intriuingly, it was the very next day that my mom had her own fog experience.  She told me about it on the phone, and the connection between it all was pretty striking, so much so that I asked her to write it down. 
{Part of this is very hard for me.  I usually feel very independent, able to make things work, not "needing" to call my Mommy at every hard minute of every day.  Even after being diagnosed with cancer, I was keeping it together pretty well and was still trying to help other people deal with the news, not even totally freaking out when there was a set-back on my mom getting here to be with me.  I was more worried about having my kids taken care of than of having someone to take care of me.  But, even though I am an adult and have children of my own, I have to step back and remember that I will always be my mother's daughter, and that motherly concern and instincts are the same whether your babies are 3 or 33.  This fog of cancer is truly affecting so many people, just like an actual fog does, and I have to remember that I'm not the only one that is hurting.}

Mom's Analogy:

On Monday morning, I was driving to work on I-15 and it was very foggy.  (I could barely see two cars ahead!) I felt very heavy-laden by the oppressive “mists of darkness,” plus I was having a hard time going back to work after the week in Houston helping Melodee & her family.  As I merged onto the freeway, I had the thought that this situation feels a lot like how my life feels right now: I feel surrounded by fog, not feeling sure about anything.  I can only see a few feet in front of me and I have to slow down in order to travel safely.  I have to keep going because, if I stop, someone could run into me & both of us would be hurt.
But there are things to be grateful for: I am driving a car with a heater so I can stay warm.  The headlights pierce enough of the fog that I can keep driving. I can trust the road I am on as long as I stay within the lines.  And I have faith that the fog will lift and I will be able to see clear blue skies again!
So it is with life:  Sometimes life “presses” down on us really hard: we can’t see very far into our future so we have to slow down & take it one day (or one minute!) at a time.  We can’t stop-we must keep going so we won’t be hurt OR we won’t hurt others. But we have help: we have guidance from Heavenly Father & Jesus Christ (“light”) and from the scriptures & the prophets (“the road to follow”).  We have temporal blessings that enable us to keep going. And we have the faith to know that we will come through the trials of life and the sun (“Son”) will shine again!
P.S. My drive home on Monday was completely clear-very different from the morning commute!  “Hold on, the Light will come!”

Today is an especially hard day.  I am in a heavy mental and physical fog--still feeling sick with a cough/congestion.  My head is aching.  A few strong smells nearly made me vomit a few times this morning, and my stomach is still unsettled.  A little bit of stress from yesterday has left me with tension and tightness in my neck and shoulders.  Basically, I'm feeling the day-after affects of the chemo plus the shot, they are slowing me down, and I don't like it! 

One of the hardest parts of this is how I feel about being a sick mom and not being fair to my children.  I want them to be happy, well taken care of, and free from the stress of a mom who just can't do everything she's always been able to do.  The fog is affecting them, too, and it doesn't seem fair!

The fog will lift.  We will keep moving forward, one moment at a time, following the paths we know and looking to the light of Christ and putting faith and trust that He can see what we can't.  Other than being more aware of the dangers in the fog, slowing down, and continuing to move forward, another bit of advice I've heard when driving foggy conditions is to NOT turn the bright lights on.  What, in theory, might seem like the best answer, the easy way--getting more light--actually makes things worse.  You have to use the low lights, slow down, and sometimes even stop until the worst of things passes. 

So it is with this fog of cancer.  We can't just do a quick and easy fix of cutting this tumor out and being done with it.  There is no way to just plow my way through and have the inconvenience gone.  I have to take the weekly doses of chemo, keep dealing with the discomfort, keep my eyes peeled, and keep moving forward.

Right now it's hard to see any light at the end of this journey.  I know it's out there somewhere.